


A Gentleman's Engagement

by girlmarauders



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-17 10:24:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14186826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlmarauders/pseuds/girlmarauders
Summary: Mr. Jonathan Lovett, respected poet and general artistic sort, becomes involved in the political plans of his friends, the Lord and Lady Favreau, and is compelled into a rushed, and staged, engagement with Sir Thomas Vietor.





	A Gentleman's Engagement

**Author's Note:**

  * For [honorbound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/honorbound/gifts).



_ A Gentleman’s Engagement _

being the tale of misunderstanding and love between two gentlemen of England, and the resulting amusements of their close friends. 

 

Our Cast of Characters:

  * Sir Thomas “Tommy” Vietor, recently knighted for services to the crown while in China.
  * Mr. Jonathan Lovett, poet, Noted Jew of London, and general artistic sort.
  * Lord Jonathan Favreau, the current Lord Carnegie, son of the Duke of Fife, and Sir Thomas’ best friend
  * Miss Hanna Koch, the daughter of a successful China trader and Sir Thomas’ other best friend.
  * Mrs. Emily Favreau, the Lady Carnegie,best friend of Mr. Lovett.
  * Mr. Ronan Farrow, lawyer, man of letters and Mr. Jonathan Lovett’s former lover.
  * Miss Priyanka Aribindi, Mr. Favreau’s man of business, who is, in fact, a woman of business. A former associate of Sir Thomas Vietor.
  * The Honourable Miss Ana Marie Cox, a lady poetess of Mr. Lovett’s acquaintance, most known for her satirical verses, and pamphlets on women’s education.



 

***

 

Lord Carnegie was being unnecessarily handsome again. It was entirely unfair that his best friend’s new husband had the temerity to be not only gracious, intelligent and a lord, he also had to be handsome.

“Lovett, you have that look on your face again,” said the new Lady Carnegie, placing a glass of champagne in his hand. “Stop looking so much like a depressed romantic, you will entirely ruin the atmosphere of the ball.”

Lovett looked at her sardonically.

“Emily, don’t be ridiculous, I’m here to be your daring Jewish rogue aren’t I? Or am I supposed to play the effeminate poet this time? You never did fill me in on my role.”

Emily laughed, which gave him a moment to swallow a large gulp of his champagne. The ball was a late celebration of Emily’s marriage to the unfairly dashing Jonathan Favreau, the Duke of Fife’s eldest son. She would be the Duchess of Fife one day, and in the interim got to call herself Lady Carnegie, and host Whig dinner parties, which was all Emily had really wanted. It was rather a triumph, especially since Emily had been born a regular Miss, and spent most of her time socialising with poets and radicals, of which Lovett could happily count himself a member of both groups. Apparently, the social distance had not been a barrier to the son of the Duke of Fife, and Lord Carnegie had insisted on this late ball of the season because a friend of his was returning from some travels of one sort or another. He was likely another one of those artless boys who had done a tour of the Continent, in the sense that they had seen the inside of several brothels and fine houses in France and Italy, and returned to England sure in the knowledge that they had learned all they needed to know about the world. Lovett had certainly fucked a few of the more adventurous ones of that type when he had been in France, but he was trying to avoid that here in England.  

Lord Carnegie drifted over to them, sneakily making his escape from the elderly Duke of Northumberland in the process, and gently touched his wife’s arm, smiling broadly. A man with that much money had no right to be so handsome. Lovett would have tried to seduce him if he wasn’t so clearly head-over-heels in love with Emily. He sighed. Someone rich and dashing who loved her was the very least that Emily deserved, and he was the worst kind of sod for finding a way to be unhappy about it.

“Lovett, good to see you,” said Lord Favreau, “Emily, I need your help. Tommy is arriving late and the matrons are already starting to make noise at me about the dancing not having begun. You know I hate it when women are angry with me.”

Emily only had to turn slightly to smile at Favreau and it was the bright smile of a love match. Lovett felt his own bachelor status even more acutely than normal. He had not had any regular partner since him and Ronan had separated amicably last year. It had been easy to tell himself that was the way he wanted it, as it gave him more time for his writing and other pursuits, but that held very little water when compared to the force of Emily and Favreau’s happiness.

“Don’t worry Jonathan, why don’t you go out to meet Thomas, and Lovett and I will start the first dance. It’s a little irregular, but you did insist on marrying a radical,” she said, with a wry smile.

“My dear, you’re perfect, thank you,” Favreau said, leaning in to kiss his wife on the cheek. It was quite overly familiar for public, but Lovett merely pretended to be looking elsewhere. He supposed you could get away with anything when you were the son of a Duke and married to a radical political hostess. “Lovett, you don’t mind?”

“Dancing with beautiful women is hardly my area of expertise, but I shall do my best,” he said, and Favreau smiled at him. They had not known each other well before Favreau had started courting Emily, but Lovett had quickly admitted him into the circle of friends he could be said to be fond of. Aside from being the least Emily was due, he also found Lovett’s jokes funny, which was usually a sign of good taste.

“At least I can be sure you won’t steal her.” he said. “I’m quite sure half of the men in London are trying to carry her away under my nose. Or well, they should be trying, otherwise they’re all as stupid as they look.”

Emily smacked Favreau on the arm with her fan, but it wasn’t very hard.

“I hope you’re not saying that in front of Lord Furness,” she said. “We need his support on the bill in the Lords.”

Favreau bent to kiss his wife’s hand.

“I would never dream of disrupting your political machinations. With that, I have to dash out, I can see the Duke of Northumberland coming this way and he’s been hunting me this entire evening. Lovett, take care of my wife!”.

Favreau strode away at a speed only slightly below what would have been rude, and slipped out of the hall. Emily snapped her fan purposely.

“Come then Lovett. I’m not letting a man’s tardiness disrupt my ball, and heaven forbid my husband has to suffer the censure of the Marchioness of Hertford.” Emily said, with a heavy tone of sarcasm and a sideways glance at him. They had been partners in crime since before Emily’s entrance to society, when Lovett had been another student with dreams of poetry, and Emily had been a headstrong Miss more interested in politics than needlepoint. They had met at one of the more radical of London’s respectable salons when Lovett was down from Oxford, and become immediate fast friends. They had schemed together to make Emily’s debut a roaring success, and for the months of Emily and Favreau’s courtship, Lovett had had a standing invitation to morning tea to sit and read Favreau’s newest letters and help plan Emily’s responses. He supposed he was now reaping the rewards of their machinations: his best friend was married and occupied with all the demands of married life and political world domination, and he was a reasonably celebrated poet, with a respectable number of romances in his past.

Emily put out her arm, and Lovett took it by sheer habit, leading her out to the dance floor. The musicians were well-trained, and as soon as they saw the lady of the house moving across the room, they played a quick procession of notes that caught the attention of even the most chattering dowager. Lovett bent low so he could whisper in Emily’s ear.

“We should cause a sensation and dance a waltz,” he said, in a low murmur, making Emily laugh lightly, as she turned to look at her guests. Emily always looked at her best when she was laughing, so Lovett rather thought it a triumph to show her off to her guests that way. She clapped her hands decisively.

“Dear friends,” she said loudly, in a drawing room accent like a bell. Lovett knew she could swear like a sailor when she needed to. “My sincerest apologies for the delay to our festivities, which we will now begin. I hope you will join me in a longways dance.”

Her and Lovett parted easily to form the two sides of the dance, and a flurry of partners quickly joined them, with many of the younger ladies already having claimed their first dance partner. There were a smattering of same-sex partners; Emily was a Whig hostess and did not discriminate. The Duchess of Londonderry had recently married her betrothed, The Honourable Miss Sutherland, and they formed a striking couple, both of them in complementary blue and gold muslin. The tune was a lively one, and Lovett was soon focussed entirely on the dance and Emily, the exertion driving some of the earlier melancholy out. Emily exchanged a few remarks with their neighbouring pairs. He had no idea how she did it, but somehow they had ended up next to the Marquess of Lansdowne’s daughter and her partner, a dashing young man in regimentals. Lovett internally, and fondly, rolled his eyes. The Marquess himself was a Tory, but his daughter was not pretty and needed to make a good match, for her brother would inherit the entire estate. If Emily could be part of getting her married to someone decent, the Marquess would owe her a favour, which she would most surely call in.

Finally, the dance came to an end, and him and Emily were able to step out of the next dance with dignity, as several of the younger couples began a cotillion. With the unique homing capacity of a hostess, Emily steered the two of them towards the tall figure of her husband.

“They could use society ladies as effectively as pigeons,” he said to Emily, out of the side of his mouth, and she looked at him, confused.

“What? Lovett, if that’s a quip it needs some work.” she said. Lovett huffed and waved a hand.

“Just thinking. I’ll puzzle it out later.” he said lightly. At their voices, Favreau turned, his hand resting lightly on the shoulder of a blonde man in tight buckskins, and Lovett took the rare opportunity to admire a man who filled out his breeches. When he turned around fully to meet them, he was a handsome blonde, with a strong jaw, who smiled fully at Emily, and bent to kiss her hand.

“Lady Carnegie,” he said, and Lovett held himself back from sighing. It was not his fault that strong-jawed blondes were his type, but the least he could do was hold back from sighing over them in public. Emily gestured between the two of them.

“Sir Thomas Vietor, may I present our dear friend Mr. Lovett. Lovett, Sir Thomas is Carnegie’s close friend recently returned from abroad.”

“How do you do,” Vietor said, reaching out to shake Lovett’s hand. He had a dry, firm handshake, the kind learned by men who spent their time among paperwork and thinking about the nation.

“How do you do,” Lovett said back. “You’ve been abroad? France I presume?”

Vietor coughed lightly, and then shook his head.

“I’m afraid not. I’ve been in China on Foreign Office business for the last eight years.”

“He was knighted two weeks ago,” Emily said cheerily, “for services to the crown while in Canton.”

Vietor blushed extremely prettily, the red spreading across his cheeks and clearly continuing under his cravat. It was going to give Lovett ideas.

“It’s a great honour,” he said, “but it seems to take an age to get used to people calling me Sir Thomas.”

“Would you rather they call you something else?” Lovett said, with enough suggestion in his eyebrows that the quip landed, and Tommy blushed even more brightly. Lovett wondered if he would be hot to the touch. Favreau laughed, and shook Vietor gently by the shoulder.

“Tommy is my oldest friend, Lovett,” he said, with a smile that showed he was joking. “Make sure you don’t scare him back to far Cathay with your quips.”

The tune of the music in the background changed, and Emily placed her hand meaningfully on Favreau’s arm. He was no fool, and he nodded at her.

“Would you give me this dance, my love?” he asked. Emily didn’t quite smile, because it wasn’t needed, but her eyes had the lightness that Lovett had come to recognise as love. She had always been beautiful, but it was since Favreau’s entrance into her life that Lovett had seen something special in her eyes.

“Of course, Lord Favreau,” she said, and they proceeded onto the dance floor, other couples moving out of their way naturally. There was an almost audible sigh from many of the younger debutantes. Emily and Favreau had been one of society’s love stories in the last year, and many were still sighing over them.

“They are ridiculously good-looking, it should be a crime.” Lovett said, looking over his shoulder at Vietor, who coughed to hide a sudden laugh. Lovett had gotten good, over the years, at spotting a hidden laugh.

“I don’t think the Foreign Office has much say in domestic policy, but I’m sure the government can take it under advisement.” Vietor said, still blushing. How thrilling, to have someone willing to quip back.

“Perhaps they can be your new tools of international diplomacy,” Lovett suggested. “Surely it is a great waste of England’s talents to keep one of its brightest political minds within the borders. Oh, and Lord Favreau as well.”

Vietor snorted, and didn’t argue. Lovett liked a man who could appreciate a good snipe.

“You’ve certainly got a good idea there. Lord Carnegie would make a fine bagman to his wife,”

That deserved a grin, and Vietor smiled back at him. Something fluttered in his chest, and he restrained himself from crushing it. He had to be allowed to be attracted, to consider the idea that another man might be attracted to him. He refused to become a solitary thing who rejected the idea that there might be a future in which he found another person to enjoy his presence. He  Lovett opened his mouth to ask Vietor - something, an invite to his club, or to a dinner at his lodgings, but the bright sound of a woman’s voice interrupted.

“Thomas!”

Lovett turned, and saw a pretty young brunette approaching, in a bright yellow dress and white lace. It was not the most fashionable of dresses, but it was clearly expensive, and she had rosy cheeks from dancing.

“Hanna!” Vietor said, taking a few quick steps towards her, and then, clearly catching himself before taking her hands, bowed low. “I mean, Miss Koch. It’s lovely to see you.”

The society smile on Miss Koch’s face didn’t move, for she was clearly well-trained, but her eyes went slightly more flat, slightly hurt by Vietor’s confused snub.

“I had heard you were back in England, but I had not seen you out in the _ton_ ,” Miss Koch said. “You should have called on me straight away Thomas, we have missed you at Dagfinn House.”

Perhaps Miss Koch could not see it, with Vietor’s hands behind his back, but he made an awkward sort of spasm with his hand, as if holding back nerves.

“My sincerest apologies Miss Koch for not calling on your earlier.” he said. “I spent only a short time in London after my arrival, I was called away on family business.”

“Well,” she said, tossing her head in a way that so many ladies thought was attractive and spirited. It made her look like a nervous horse, Lovett thought to himself uncharitably, and then was annoyed with himself for the unkind thoughts toward a lady he didn’t know. Just because she seemed to have a close companionship with Sir Thomas. He had only known Vietor for a few moments. It was ridiculous to already feel proprietary, especially when he had no idea if he preferred men or women. He coughed lightly, to remind Vietor that he was here, and he turned around, the blush still annoyingly handsome on his neck.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss Koch, may I present Mr. Lovett. He is a poet of some renown.” Vietor said.

Lovett hoped the surprise did not show in his face. He did not recall hearing Emily or Favreau mention his career when he was introduced, and he hadn’t known that Sir Thomas was aware of his poetry. Miss Koch curtseyed prettily.

“Mr. Lovett, Miss Koch and I are acquainted from a shared interest in China, and through my work with her father.” Vietor said, and Lovett took her hand, bowing over it.

“My pleasure to make your acquaintance Miss Koch,” he said. “It is always gratifying to see a ball graced by such a beauty.”

Miss Koch opened her fan with the regular ease of a woman who attended many balls, and knew how to flirt, and covered the lower half of her face with it.

“Mr. Lovett, it is entirely unfair for you to compliment ladies so audaciously, who shall have their hearts broken when you do not return their inevitable favour.” she said archly, but he could see a smile in her eyes. Inwardly, he felt even worse for his uncharitable thoughts. She clearly had a fine mind for humour under that unfashionable gown.

“Never let it be said that I have not given favour to a lady who is deserving,” he said. She moved her fan so that he could clearly see her smile.

“Ah yes,” she said in the significant manner of one building to a joke, “but I do not feel you would _bestow your favours_ in a way most ladies would appreciate.”

Next to them, Vietor made a strange choking sound but Lovett had never seen the point of hiding his appreciation of a good joke, and snorted loudly.

“I salute a master of wit,” he said, making a shallow joke bow, looking sideways at Vietor. He was still bright red.

“I admit the sin of pride in the realm of fine jokes,” she said, “and it is rare to find a man who will admit to a woman’s mastery of anything.”

Vietor seemed to find his voice at that heavy hint, and cut in.

“I hope you will count me among those rare men, Miss Koch, since I always admit your mastery of dances. Are you engaged for the next dance?”

Miss Koch took his arm easily, and the bright yellow of the gown was quite pretty next to his dark coat.

“It would be my pleasure, Thomas. It was lovely to make your acquaintance Mr. Lovett.”

They made a very pretty couple as the proceeded out to the dance floor, and Lovett restrained himself from muttering under his breath. This was why he mostly sourced his partners from his more artistic social circle. There was no danger of becoming enamoured with a man who had no preference for partners of his own gender.

Cursing his bad luck, Lovett made a move towards the cluster of older men, who were almost certainly around the whiskey, in an attempt to find a drink. He would regret the headache in the morning, but it would certainly ease the burn of rejection now.

 

***

 

Lovett did most certainly regret the headache the next morning, and was determined to do nothing more complicated than wear a shirt and lounge about his rooms writing poetry. He had a chapbook due for publication in a few months, and a few more verses would hardly hurt the thing. That was, until a note arrived from Carnegie House, requesting his presence for afternoon tea.

He sighed, looking at it, and then roused himself to dress, although he did a shabby job of the cravat, and call a cab to take him across town to Carnegie House. He may have been nursing a hangover but Emily’s cook was excellent, and a few of her pastries would surely set him to rights. He was received by Emily in her parlour, in a fine morning gown of very light blue, and discussing the ball with her returned some of the spirit he had been lacking in the last days. He had not expected to miss her so much when they did not see each other every day for hours at a time, but she was his best friend, and sharing his thoughts with her, even if they were just his musing on the turn of Lord Ashleigh’s leg, was one of his greatest joys. It could be a good life, he thought, his poetry and Emily and her husband, and, he supposed, their children eventually. Even if he did not find a partner, it would not be a terrible thing to be the doting Uncle Jon.

Emily was telling him about Miss Crowe’s rather heavy-handed attempt at flirtation with the Sarlow heir when there was the sound of commotion in the front hall, which adjoined Emily’s parlour, and they both went to the door to see what the fuss was about.

Still half out of his coat was Sir Thomas, who was red in the face and breathing hard, as if he had come running from somewhere. He was looking at the butler, and so did not see them looking on from the doorway of the parlour.

“Sir, is Favreau - damn, I mean Lord Carnegie, in? Why is blasted heaven did everyone have to change titles while I was away, I can hardly keep my own friends straight.”

“Quite good sir,” the Favreau’s butler said, who Lovett knew from experience could not be ruffled by much, let along the mild inconvenience of a gentleman swearing in the hall. “Lord Carnegie is in his library. Would you prefer to escort him ma’m?” he directed the final part to Emily. The staff liked Emily, as she paid them above the going rate, and was happy to conduct the household in a way that reduced the work for them without meddling. Vietor turned, finally fighting off his coat into the arms of a waiting footman, and made an embarrassed face when he saw Emily and Lovett.

“Lady Carnegie, my apologies, I didn’t see you there, I’m sorry for the disturbance.” he said quickly, but Emily waved a hand, silencing him.

“Thank you Carter. I can see Sir Thomas on from here.” she said to the butler, who bowed and quickly withdrew with the footman. “Thomas, you are always welcome in our house, and I am sure there is a good reason for your entrance otherwise you would not have arrived in such haste, and as there is a good reason I cannot fault it.”

Lovett nearly laughed at the fine piece of logic that stalled all of Vietor’s babbling, but held it in, and merely trailed behind the two of them on the way to Favreau’s library.

Favreau’s library was a very fine room, and the bookshelves, Lovett knew, were well-stocked. It was one of the many reasons that Lovett has approved of Favreau from the outset. Inside the room, Favreau was sitting at his desk, a fellow that Lovett didn’t recognise in the chair across from him, unobtrusive in the dark suit of a clerk. When they entered, Favreau stood and went to take his wife’s hand, so that she could have the chair while the gentlemen stood.

“Tommy,” he said, embracing the man casually. “What’s the matter? We weren’t expecting you today.”

Vietor glanced around the room significantly, which was a little cramped with the presence of a lady and four gentleman. Favreau gestured to the clerk.

“Tommy, you remember Miss Aribindi, my man of business. Miss Aribindi, you know my wife and Mr. Lovett,” he said. Lovett blinked and realised that in his curiosity over Vietor’s news he had neglected to notice that Favreau’s man of business was in fact a _woman_ of business. She wore a clerk’s suit cut well to suit a woman’s frame, and her dark hair was worn in a braid around the crown of her head, meaning she was easily mistaken at a distance or by those not paying attention, as Lovett had been.

Miss Aribindi bowed, and extended her hand to shake Lovett’s.

“This is our first time meeting, my lord. A pleasure, Mr. Lovett,” she said, and Lovett nodded.

“Likewise,” he said. Miss Aribindi turned to shake Vietor’s hand.

“Thomas, it’s good to see you.” she said. “It’s been too long since the _Tintagel_.”

Vietor seemed slightly calmed to be among familiar faces, and he managed to catch his breath enough to smile back at Miss Aribindi, who looked at Emily and Lovett.

“Sir Thomas and I were acquainted on a sea voyage to Canton when I was employed as a personal secretary,” she said. “The _Tintagel_ was our ship.”

“How cosmopolitan,” Emily said, and spread her skirts. “Now that we are all acquainted, and Tommy knows he can share his news with us all, perhaps he will put us out of our misery and inform us what has brought him here in the middle of the day.”

Vietor still looked a little nervous, but Lovett had never known a man of any preference who could withstand Emily’s curiosity for long, and he took the chair that Miss Aribindi had vacated.

“I’ve just come from the Foreign Office. Jon, Emily, you remember our conversations on the political situation in Canton?” He asked. They both nodded, and Lovett stayed quiet, taking a place leaning against one of the bookshelves. “Well, they’ve damn well gone and moved before us - I had the news come through in the express post. Miss Zhao is coming to London.”

Favreau looked shocked, but Emily, who had never been prone to the gasping and shrieking that so plagued society wives, merely set her jaw.

“I see,” she said. “Well, the bill had been introduced into the Lords already, and my father-in-law assures me it will be debated by the end of next week. They cannot afford to delay.”

Favreau nodded.

“It’s not the end of the world, my boy. You dodged her well enough in Canton for a year, surely you can manage it a few weeks here.”

Tommy shook his head despondently.

“That was when I could avoid other Foreign Office men at the same time, and I had the Ambassador to supportme,” he said. “I’m not sure I’ll manage it here, and I’ll be getting pressure from my superiors.”

Lovett rapped his knuckles against the bookcase, losing his patience for stories he didn’t know the contents of.

“Currently this is all very dastardly novel,” he said, “but would someone care to enlighten me on the nature of this escapade?”

Vietor only looked more despondent at the sarcasm. It wasn’t a good look on him, his tanned skin and golden hair better suited for happiness than melancholy, and Lovett itched to bring another smile to his face.

Emily rearranged her skirts perfunctorily.

“Sir Thomas, might I explain the whole story to Lovett? I am sure Miss Aribindi is already acquainted with parts of it.”

Vietor nodded.

“Go ahead.”

Emily steepled her hands, and Lovett recognised the expression she wore when she had constructed one of her better plans.

“Lovett, as you know, Sir Thomas has been engaged by the Foreign Office in Canton for the past eight years. The ambassador there is a good man, but several of the more unscrupulous parts of British enterprise abroad continue to violate our treaties with the Chinese government and trade in opium in the city and beyond.”

Lovett nodded. This was no more than he could gain by reading one of the more internationally-minded papers, but he knew better than to interrupt Emily in full flow.

“The opium trade is a despicable business. I cannot censure a man who indulges occasionally, since it is such a common vice, but in China the drug is sold with the express aim of causing addiction, and many families have been devastated by poverty and disease because of it.”

“It’s horrible,” Vietor cut in, and the tone of his voice made Lovett’s gaze skip over to him. His eyes made it clear that he had been witness to some of the despicable business that Emily outlined, and that he had been horrified. “Children starving while their parents eat opium, men who once had dignity who will do anything to buy more opium. And all this done by English greed. The mind rebels.”

Favreau nodded, and his face was clouded with righteousness.

“No one of any honour could support it Tommy. Go on my dear,” he said, with a nod to Emily.

“Sir Thomas wrote to Lord Carnegie of his horror at this, and my husband shared the issue with me. Over the last months, we have been working with several of the Lords to introduce a bill that would reduce the capacity for English traders to sell opium abroad. As I mentioned, the bill was introduced last week.”

“You’ve kept this quiet,” Lovett said. Favreau had too good manners to shrug, but he gave a full body movement that suggested one.

“There are some, well, I hesitate to call them gentlemen, in the Foreign Office with a material interest in the continued sale of opium. We didn’t want any of them to catch wind of it before it was in parliament.”

“That all sounds very noble and political,” Lovett said, “but what does this have to do with the Miss Zhao that has Sir Thomas running scared?”

He had hoped the teasing would cause Vietor to bite back, but he merely looked queasy.

“Miss Zhao is the daughter of a Cantonese trader, and Sir Thomas feels himself under a serious debt to her. The Foreign Office, and Miss Zhao’s father, are very desirous that the two become engaged.”

“Whatever for?” Lovett asked.

Favreau waved a hand.

“It has something to do with the complexities of the bill. We weren’t able to outlaw the selling of opium, but merely restrict to whom it could be sold. Miss Zhao would gain British citizenship by marriage through Tommy, and then her father used as a neutral party to smuggle opium.” he said, his tone conveying that he felt a sufficient explanation for something that was undoubtedly ridiculously legally complicated. Vietor sat back in his chair, removing his hands from his face.

“Nian doesn’t want to marry me any more than I do, but she has to obey her father.” he said. “She feels at least a marriage to me would get her out of Canton and well away from her father, so she’s less concerned with the implications than I am.”

“And if one of the darlings of the Foreign Office, recently knighted, is seen to be engaged to the daughter of an opium trader, all the moral wind shall go out of our sails,” Emily said, and both Vietor and Favreau nodded. “It would kill the bill.”

“You can’t let that happen,” said Miss Aribindi, and then flushed darkly when all the eyes on the room turned on her. Lovett had nearly forgotten she was there. “Begging your pardon, my lords,” she added, stiffening her spine, “but I’ve been to China, and I’ve seen the chaos caused by the opium trade. If British traders could be stopped, it would save many lives.”

“Well said,” Favreau said, even as Vietor shook his head.

“I can’t stay in my rooms all day, I have a job, and commitments. And I owe Nian. If she asks me directly, there’s no way I can say no. I’m stuck.” he said. Even struck down like this, he was still handsome, with those noble shoulders and the guinea-gold hair. Lovett desperately wanted to reach forward and retie his cravat, which had slipped one of its knots, and he knew it was because it would bring his hands so close to touching his lightly-tanned skin. Vietor looked up and met his gaze. Something of his desire must have showed in his eyes because his despondent expression became surprised, and he opened his mouth, his tongue carefully wetting his lips.

“It seems to me there’s an easy way out of this,” Lovett said, wanting to speak before Vietor asked questions, or, worse, remarked on Lovett’s strange obsession. Staring had been his fault, but he didn’t need to be called out on it in front of his closest friends.

“How?” Vietor asked, sitting up and looking more alive. The snap of curiosity, and a little desperation, in his eyes made Lovett’s heart swell and he tried, rather unsuccessfully, to lead an internal battle against his need to please this man.

“You declare an engagement to someone else. Someone uninvolved in this whole affair. You can't possibly entertain this Miss Zhao when you are newly engaged, and afterwards you are free to break off the engagement without consequence.”

Emily clapped her hands and nearly bounced her chair with joy.

“Lovett, that's brilliant! and the announcement will distract much of the opposition into wondering about Tommy, rather than rallying opponents to the bill.”

Tommy stood and paced to the library window. His back was to them, so Lovett could not see his face when he spoke.

“But who could I ask? I have so few friends in England, and those I have are married or too deeply involved at the Foreign Office.” he said.

“What about the pretty Miss Koch you were dancing with last night?” Lovett asked. “You are already acquainted, no one would bat an eyelid.”

A speaking look that Lovett did not wish to interrogate passed between Emily and Favreau. He was sure Emily would later be quizzing him on how easily Vietor’s dance partners stayed in his memory. Vietor coughed politely.

“There are...existing reasons why I could not ask Miss Koch.” he said quietly. “It would be a disservice to my friendship with the lady to use her so cruelly.”

“Then me,” Lovett said, without thinking, and then gulped when Vietor turned suddenly to stare at him. He shrugged. “I am uninvolved, and have never moved in Foreign Office circles. Better yet, I'm disreputable enough that when you break off the engagement you can blame my artistic ways and be none the worse off.”

Vietor was gaping like a fish. Lovett fiercely shoved away a stray thought about what could be done with an open mouth, and crossed his arms across his chest.

“Don't tell me they don't get the news in Far Cathay. Same sex unions have been legal for six years now.” Lovett said defensively. They may have been legal, but that didn't prevent some members of the upper ten thousand flying into a rage at the mere mention of them.

“Oh..yes, sorry, I was aware, I'm just surprised at the offer.” Vietor said, clearly flustered, with the delicious blush of his spreading across his cheeks again.

Emily was tapping her fingers against her chin thoughtfully.

“Thomas, you have to admit this is a fine plan. It would give you legitimate reason not to be involved in the bill, which would protect your career, and a number of the Tories will be so outraged they'll vote for the bill just to be seen to be doing something moral.” she said. “What do you think Jonathan?” she asked, turning her head towards her husband.

Favreau was looking at Tommy, who was studying the drapes with a determined air.

“I rather think it's up to Tommy,” he said, raising his eyebrows when Vietor finally looked up. He looked nervous and flushed, and licked his lips before replying.

“I'll do anything that'll get that bill passed, and keep me free of the Zhaos.” he said, although he said it nearly at a whisper. Favreau looked like he was going to ask again, but Emily was never one to let fields lie fallow, and she stood, her posture drawing a clear line under the decision.

“That settles it. If the bill is to pass, we’ll announce the engagement tomorrow, with another dinner to celebrate in a week’s time. Tommy, when is Miss Zhao due to arrive in London?” she asked.

“Her ship from Calais is due on the next Wednesday morning,” he said, sounding a little poleaxed.

“Excellent, we’ll send her an invitation so that she’s made aware as soon as she arrives in London. My lord, how do you suggest we spread the news?”

Favreau nodded thoughtfully.

“If Miss Aribindi will oblige me, I can include it in some of my correspondence today. And I was planning on making an appearance at the club tonight.”

“Miss Aribindi?” Emily asked. Aribindi bowed shallowly.

“I have no other engagements, ma’m. It would be my pleasure to assist in the scheme.” she said.

Emily gestured, and Vietor came over to take her arm. He didn’t seem to have consciously decided to do it, but Lovett supposed that was what the ruthless training of manners was for, so that you did what was needed without thinking in moments of stress.

“Why don’t we leave the men of business to their business Lovett?” Emily said, and smiled. “A word of advice Miss Aribindi? Women never scheme, we merely plan. It helps protect our male acquaintances’ sensibilities.”

Miss Aribindi and Favreau both chuckled, and Miss Aribindi took the chair across from the desk again as Lovett followed Vietor and Emily out of the library and back to her front parlor. It had not quite sunk in what he had agreed to, but his mind seemed to have enough spare space to use the opportunity to appreciate Vietor’s tight breeches, and the delightful curve of his arse.

He managed to prattle through another half hour of visiting with Emily, with Vietor blushing furiously every time their eyes met. Emily asked after Vietor’s family, and he managed to forget his embarrassment in being linked to a known sodomite for an entire ten minutes while he spoke about his sister’s child, and a cousin’s business endeavours. Eventually, finally, enough time had passed that Lovett could beg off and take his horse back to his lodgings. Vietor was clearly horrified at the plan, but willing to see it through, and Lovett’s honour would not let him back down either, despite dreading the dinner that Emily was hastily arranging for the following day. They would both have to endure.

 

***

 

Lovett thought about dressing shabbily for the announcement of their engagement, but then felt bad about it. It was not Vietor’s fault that he was swept up in this, and if Lovett was vindictive to every aristocrat who felt mildly uncomfortable around sodomites he was going to slowly lose his mind, and never get to play a good game of piquet again. Instead, he tied his cravat firmly, and shimmied into his best coat and buckskins. He would hardly win any prizes for his appearance, but at the very least he could be well turned out.

He rode to Emily’s, and let their stablehand take Pundit to their stables while the butler let him through the front door. He had arrived early, at Emily’s request, and the servants showed him into the dining room, which was set lavishly for dinner. Emily was sat at one of the side tables, in a deep green gown that set off her eyes and hair, writing place names in her looping handwriting.

“Come and sit down,” she said. “I'm nearly finished.”

Lovett sat across from her, and waited. He could see the names spiraling out from under her pen, this lord and that sir, all Whigs every one of them. Part of him wanted to run, to call it off and damn Emily and damn the lot of them. He could spend a month drowning his sorrow in drinking and fucking, and by the time he raised his head from it all, society would have moved on and forgotten all about the scandal of Englishmen peddling drugs abroad. He sighed. He couldn't do that. Damn his conscience. He cared about these political causes as much as Emily and Favreau, and what was happening in China was wrong. If he could be only a small part of reducing that pain, he could survive the struggle of pretending to be engaged to someone who held no affection for him.

“That was quite a sigh,” Emily said, without looking up from her writing.

“Just preparing myself for the newest role you have charged me with.” he said sardonically. “Now, do you think this calls for “shameless sodomite”, “roguish jew of London” or, my personal favorite, “a poet so self-important he believes everyone needs to hear about his work”?”

“I wasn't aware any of those were roles you were playing,” Favreau said with humour from the doorway. Vietor was standing awkwardly at his side, although he managed a thin, embarrassed smile for Lovett. He hoped he would be able to summon some semblance of acting for the dinner. It would not do for every Whig in London to be under the impression that Lovett forced his partners into engagement against their will.

He waved a hand at Favreau.

“I contain depths you would not understand Favreau. I can easily play all those roles and more. All the world's a stage and all that,” he said, and winked at Vietor. It wasn't his best reference but Vietor has the good humour to at least chuckle. That was a good start. He set himself the task of making Vietor laugh at least twice more. It made his eyes dance, and he had a face made for smiling. Lovett would have the whole room in love with Sir Thomas Vietor, if only he could make him laugh again.

At dinner, Emily placed them at each other's side. It slightly threw off the balance of ladies and gentlemen, but Emily was a talented hostess and the awkwardness was rarely obvious or felt by the diners. To Lovett’s right was a lady poetess he had some passing acquaintance with, a Miss Cox, and they chatted amicably about their mutual artistic friends and the salons of their experience through the aperitif. In the brief rest between courses the lady gestured delicately with her napkin, and raised her eyebrows at him.

“I'm very glad I accepted Lady Carnegie’s invitation, even at such a short notice,” she said.”There have been some very delectable rumours circulating recently about you, if you don't mind me saying so sir.”

It was terrible manners, but then again the whole point of the dinner was to announce their sham engagement, so Lovett suspected he could allow some lax manners. He let his hand rest lightly over Vietor’s wrist, so that his pinkie dropped between the split of the cuff and lightly rested against his wrist. It was an intimate gesture, and he knew that the other diners noticed, including Miss Cox. Next to him, he felt Vietor stiffen suddenly at the touch, and the, to Lovett’s surprise, relax into it, his wrist turning and his fingers curling upwards to brush against Lovett’s knuckles. It was just on the outside of holding hands, and felt personal, even private.

Lovett resisted the urge to look away from Miss Cox, whose eyebrows had climbed even higher in surprise, and instead smiled at her blandly.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you mean,” he said airly. “I’ve always found that the fun of gossip is inevitably taken away by talking about it with people of morals. And I have the misfortune to be overburdened with friends of high morals.”

Miss Cox smiled at that, which was good since Lovett thought it a good line and he liked to be appreciated. The first course was served, and they returned to the normal dinner conversation of the food and mutual friends. Occasionally, he would look over to Vietor, who was eating one handed in order to keep his wrist under Lovett’s fingers, and was engrossed in a deep conversation with the gentleman on his left on trade tariffs in the South Americas. Once Vietor looked over him at the same moment as he turned to check on him, and they made quick, electric eye contact, making Vietor blush all over before he returned, stammering, to his conversation. Let the other diners put it down to maidenly shyness in front of his betrothed, Lovett thought. It did not hurt the deception.

After the main course, a very fine quail in sauce, was taken away by the servants, Favreau stood, holding his glass, and the hubbub of the dinners gradually quieted.

“Friends, thank you very much for gracing us with your company on this fine evening. It is always a gratifying pleasure to dine with one’s friends.” he said. Favreau had a charisma that few other lords could duplicate, since most of them never felt they needed to put in the effort to convince anyone, and he was always a pleasure to listen to. Lovett thought he smiled too much, but Emily said that was his artistic sensibilities, rather than an objective truth. Favreau glanced at Emily on his left and smiled softly.

“As many of you know, I have found myself in a state of wedded bliss with the most deserving of wifes, the new Lady Carnegie. Because of my recent happiness, it gives my joy to know that my closest friends will soon join me in leaving bachelorhood behind,” he said, and several of the diners glanced around, trying to look at Lovett and Vietor casually, most of the failing. The rumours must have spread quickly, helped by Favreau and Miss Aribindi, but most of Emily’s guests had too good manners to reveal that they knew about the gossip. Favreau gestured with his glass, taking in Lovett and Vietor in the gesture. “To that end, I would like to propose a toast to the recent engagement of my dear friend Sir Thomas Vietor to Mr. Jonathan Lovett.”

A few of the younger ladies around the table gasped, or squealed in delight, and were quickly shushed. Lovett has expected Vietor to blush again, but instead his hand closed more tightly, until the two of them were truly holding hands, still sitting at the table. Favreau lifted his glass.

“To your happiness!” he toasted, and the table rose to its feet, Lovett and Vietor following them. Vietor did not let go of his hand, and smiled nervously at the well-wishers. After they had toasted and drank, he put his glass down and looked around the table.

“Thank you all,” he said. “Lovett and I are delighted to share this with you, and with Lord and Lady Carnegie.” At that he raised their hands and glanced across at Lovett. “We are very happy,” he said simply. Lovett was lost for words, but several of the more emotional ladies sighed happily. It was romantic beyond measure. Lovett has not thought Vietor had it in him.

They finally released hands for the desert, but Lovett felt the ghost of the pressure on his palm until Emily rose and declared that the ladies would withdraw, and the gentlemen were welcome to join them as soon as they had finished with the port. The drink was passed around, and a few of the gentlemen withdrew from the table to speak by the fireplace, but Lovett stayed, turning his chair out to give himself room to extend his legs.

Vietor also turned out, and their knees brushed. After the prolonged hand-holding, Lovett was alive to every touch of their bodies, and the mere brushing of knees seemed electric.

“That was a very pretty speech of Favreau’s,” he said, holding his port but not taking a sip. Vietor nodded.

“Jon always did have a way with words, even at school.”

“You went to school together?” Lovett asked, glad for a topic of conversation that seemed manageable.

“Hmm, yes, Eton, and then Oxford.” Vietor paused, and his face at those memories was clearly happy. “We were inseparable.”

“Until you went to China.”

“Yes, until then.” Vietor said, but he didn't seem displeased at the interruption, or the reminder that he had left. “I took a position in the Foreign Office to see the world. I jumped at the chance when they offered me the post in China.”

“Despite the distance?” Lovett asked. Vietor shook his head.

“Because of it,” he said, making an uncontrolled gesture with his hands as if he was near to bursting with the love of this far-away place. It animated his features, making him look suddenly younger, and Lovett leaned in, pulled by a force he could not control.

“Tell me about China,” he said, wishing desperately to see the same expression return to his face.

They spoke of that for a time that Lovett could not count but it seemed to pass unreasonably fast. Vietor spoke with an innocent’s awe about the fantastical things he had seen in China, but he also had the government man’s eye for detail, and his stories were so rich with description and feeling that for a strange moment Lovett felt as though he too had seen the Chinese glories that Vietor described. The place where their knees touched seemed a conduit of every wonderful thing he had ever seen and his passion flowed through to Lovett, who could only take up each of the precious stories and hope he could hold them for long enough, like a prince with uncountable riches.

Finally, Favreau placed his empty port glass on the fireplace and declared that they would rejoin the ladies in the parlour, sending all the gentlemen through into the next room. There, Emily was holding court, the pale wood panelling of the room and the last soft light of the day making her look like an ancient illuminated manuscript, all in deep greens and yellows. She was one of the younger political hostesses of their generation, but she had a skill and instinct that many lacked, and Lovett was sure that, between the two of them, Emily and Favreau would go far. She'd make him prime minister if she could, and lord knew he'd be good at it.

Favreau took the seat next to Emily that Miss Cox had vacated, and Emily immediately easily brought him into the conversation with several of the ladies. Miss Cox came over and took Lovett’s arm conspiratorially, smiling brightly at Vietor.

“Mr. Lovett I am very impressed with you for keeping this engagement a secret for so long. Our set of artistic sorts had positively no idea. and Lady Carnegie informs me that Sir Thomas only returned from Canton two weeks ago. How ever did the two of you meet?” she asked.

Lovett’s brain rushed to think of a plausible reason, but for a horrible second the mechanisms of his brain turned like a wheel stuck in a rut, going nowhere. He felt a soft pressure on his shoulder and, looking back, realised that Vietor had placed a possessive hand there, squeezing comfortingly.

“Lovett and I had not met physically in person before my return from China,” he said, “but ours was a romance conducted through the written word. I knew of his poetry and wrote a letter to him to thank him for the creation of several of my favorite verses and-” at this Vietor blushed, and glanced away shyly. “I think it is fitting for an engagement to a writer that I fell first in love with his writing, and then with his person.”

Lovett has never seen a charm offensive so immediately successful. Miss Cox, as a writer herself, was enamoured with the idea that one could grow to love someone merely from their writing and she looked practically ready to melt into the floor with sentiment.

“Oh, how lovely!” she exclaimed. She patted Lovett’s arm. “You have won yourself an absolute gem in this one Lovett. I hope you are very happy together.”

At that, she withdrew, and was immediately drawn into a discussion with Mr. Madison on the subject of women’s education, on which they agreed fiercely on the general need for and disagreed fiercely on the particular methods through which it should be delivered, making it a perfect political discussion for the pair of them. Lovett turned, letting Vietor’s hand drop from his shoulders.

“Do you truly know my poetry?” he asked. Vietor looked shy again, but he did not blush.

“I've read _The_ _Myrmidones_ a hundred times,” he said. “My sister sent me a chapbook as a gift three years ago.”

“And you read the poems?” Lovett paused. “More than once?”

Vietor nodded, and his eyes were full of earnestness.

“I love them,” he said, and Lovett heard that with more force than if Vietor had grabbed him. It was such a strange and shocking thought to realise that someone on the other side of the globe had read his work, and that somehow they had been moved by the words he had written in a drafty room at Cambridge. He had always believed in the near-magical power of words, but he had never been fully confronted with the results of their power like this. It was almost enough to despair. How could he ever capture in words the soft look on Vietor’s face, the gently parted lips and light flush on his cheeks, combined with the fierce protectiveness flaring in Lovett’s breast bone. How dare anyone threaten this beautiful creature, who read his poetry and blushed so prettily?

The rest of the evening seemed to pass in a strange haze, with Vietor seemingly the only clear thing in the blur of everyone else. When he finally managed to drag himself back to his rooms and into his bed, he stared at the ceiling until he fell asleep against his will, wondering the whole time how he had managed to fall so completely for someone so unclaimable.

 

***

 

He rose early, from a night of fitful sleeping, and stole an apple from his lodging’s kitchen to take to the small stables. Keeping Pundit was an expense he could not always well afford, but even in his leanest months he had not been able to let her go. She was a tall golden mare, with a playful attitude, and, as far as he was concerned, the temperament of an angel. On his worst days, he would come and talk to her, and feed her apples. He always left feeling more able to face the world. He wasn’t England’s greatest rider, and rode more for appearance than for sport, but Pundit had been a companion for many years now.

He was feeding her apples, and petting her forehead, murmuring to her about how he was a great idiot who had fallen in love with a man who would never feel the same for him, when Sir Thomas rode into the courtyard.

For a moment, he could only stare. He had never thought himself one of those hopeless romantics forever writing tiresome odes to tree spirits and water nymphs, but he would have happily written an extremely tiresome poem about horse gods at exactly that moment. It would have contained a very breathless and risque verse about the god’s thighs. Then Vietor dismounted, and the moment broke. Pundit nickered and butted her head against his shoulder, so Lovett decided to escape his interfering horse and walked across the courtyard.

“Lovett,” Vietor said happily, his face brightening. He did not let go of his horse’s reins, even though one of the lodging house’s stablehands lingered nearby. “Sorry for coming by unannounced, but Jon had your address and, I thought, perhaps, you would like to ride with me? The weather looks set to be very fine, and I haven't ridden in St James in eight years.”

He looked so eager that Lovett had no heart to deny him.

“It would be my pleasure,” he said, and was rewarded with a brilliant smile.

One of the stablehands prepared and saddled Pundit, and Lovett managed to mount without dishonouring himself. The two of them rode together, horses alongside each other, to St. James’ park, and Vietor laughed at his jokes two out of every three times, filling Lovett with an infectious confidence. The sun was shining and he was being accompanied by a handsome man. What was there to regret or fear? Every time he was apart from Vietor he cursed himself and his foolishness, and vowed to guard himself more closely, but the moment they were together again he could not restrain his flirts and jokes, and the cycle began all over again.

Once they reached the park, away from the traffic of London’s streets during the season, they gave the horses their head and raced down several of the paths. Vietor won each one, for he was a much more proficient rider, and Lovett always grew hopelessly distracted watching him ride, standing in the stirrups, thighs working, his face alight with exertion.

Eventually, they and the horses tired and the pace slackened, falling easily into conversation. The issue of their engagement was never raised, as if by mutual agreement, and they talked of other things - their educations (Lovett in the classics at Cambridge, Vietor in modern history at Oxford), their families (Vietor had a married sister and an infant nephew, Lovett a much older brother who had joined the bar), and their pastimes and occupations  (Lovett, the salons of London and the arts, Vietor the Foreign Office and a reassignment to the Russia desk). They were both so deeply engaged in the conversation that neither of them noticed when another horse appeared on the path.

Lovett looked up and reigned his horse in, Vietor following suit, until they were both at a stop on the side of the path.

“Ronan?” Lovett said, when the other rider was within polite speaking-distance. Ronan looked particularly striking, his black well-brushed coat a stark contrast with his intensely blonde hair, and the pale colour of his horse. Ronan looked surprised to see Lovett, and lifted his tricorn in greeting.

“Mr. Lovett,” he said, which burned a little. He and Ronan had been lovers for nearly a year and a half, and Lovett had found their closeness, and Ronan’s support, always a comfort. Their separation had been amicable, but based on a fundamental disagreement over the nature of the future of their relationship, and part of it had been Ronan’s retinance in public. They had been kind to one another in their parting, but it had not lessened the sting and both of them were overly careful around the other now. “I hadn’t expected to see you out riding so early. I did not think you someone who enjoyed the mornings out of doors,” Ronan said, chasing away Lovett’s more maudlin thoughts.

“I am endeavouring to change my character,” Lovett said airly, “Us artistic types must be always changing, or we would be writing poems about the same square footage of a lodging house for the rest of our lives.”  Next to him, Vietor snorted quietly in amusement, and Lovett felt a surge of victory. “Sir Thomas, might I introduce my dear friend, Mr. Ronan Farrow, a lawyer of the Inner Temple. Mr. Farrow, it’s my pleasure to introduce Sir Thomas Vietor. Sir Thomas has recently been knighted for his service to the crown while engaged by the Foreign Office in Canton.”

He felt unreasonably proud of Vietor’s success, despite having had no part in it. However, it seemed to him a fine reflection of his character that someone so accomplished and clearly intelligent would choose him as a partner, even if only a false one, and he was happy to show that to Ronan. Vietor raised his hat to Ronan.

“How do you do,” he said.

“I do quite well,” Ronan said, looking at Vietor consideringly. “I must admit I have you at a disadvantage sir, I have already heard a number of rumours about your acquaintance with Mr. Lovett. I do not know if I should give that gossip full credence. Society has a way of giving weight to lies much above the weight they give to the truth.”

Vietor wasn’t an idiot, and he picked up on the implication, blushing furiously.

“I am not sure what rumours you speak of, Mr. Farrow,” Vietor said with a slight stammer. “But I was intensely happy to announce my engagement to Mr. Lovett yesterday at the home of our mutual friend, Lord Carnegie.”

Ronan’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and his look at Lovett was shocked. He clearly had not anticipated that Vietor would acknowledge the engagement so brazenly to a near-complete stranger. That seemed to, more than anything else, anger Vietor and Lovett saw him frown, his jaw hardening. He used a neat trick with his reins to cause his horse to step sideways, closer to Lovett, and reached out to take Lovett’s hand.

It was slightly clammy, but Vietor gripped his hand and then released, as if in support.

“We accept your congratulations,” Vietor said, rather sternly, drawing attention to the fact that Ronan had not offered any. It was the first time Lovett had heard Vietor say anything that could be interpreted as a harsh word, and was surprised to find that such a gentle man had a temper under it all. That it was in defense of Lovett made it all the sweeter.

With that, Vietor dropped Lovett’s hand and flicked his reins, causing his horse to trot on. It took Lovett by surprise, and his pause allowed Ronan time to pull his horse sideways, blocking Lovett's path.

“Lovett,” he said, and then paused, looking stricken. “I'm sorry, I was just surprised. I'm glad you're happy. I hope we can be that...happy for each other, I mean.”

Internally, Lovett cursed that they were ahorse and he could not reach out for him. Perhaps their history wore on the nerves occasionally, but they were friends, and it was distressing to see Ronan struggle for words.

“Your happiness would bring me nothing but joy.” he said, and then feeling allergic to the sentiment, “I'll write a very allegorical poem about it when you next find a lover, and you'll know I am happy for you because all the references will be Roman instead of Greek. I know they're your favorite.”

Ronan snorted, and moved his horse aside, looking like his spirits were a little restored

“Go on, I should let you get back to your devoted young man,” he said. Vietor had stopped his horse a little down the path and was looking back at them. Lovett smiled at Ronan, and they shared a real smile, one that reached Ronan’s gorgeous eyes, which, Lovett discovered, still had the power to make his stomach twist with attraction and desire. Lovett tapped his heels on Pundit’s sides and caught up with Vietor.

They didn't mention it, but Vietor was stiff for the rest of their ride, something darker and downcast in his mood that Lovett could not joke him out of. They agreed to dine together that evening, for “appearances” in Vietor’s stiffly delivered words, and went their separate ways back to their lodgings.

 

***

 

Lovett hailed a cab to take him to Vietor’s lodgings, and was surprised when the cab took him to the front of a well put together townhouse, set slightly back from the road on a terrace. He was let into the front hall by a manservant, who showed him into a cozy parlour.

“Sir Thomas will be with you shortly,” he said, and then withdrew silently. Lovett looked around. Someone who was not Sir Thomas had clearly decorated the room, in a pale blue colour, but there were darker patches on the wall where paintings had been recently removed. Over one of the patches hung an unframed painting in a scroll form, unfamiliar brushstrokes outlining a crane in flight. It looked so beautiful, and so out of place in the room.

Eventually, the door opened with a soft click, and Sir Thomas entered. Not for the first time, Lovett wished desperately that he did not look so good, or dress half so well. For a second, Lovett could imagine to himself that they were an engaged couple finding a moment to themselves, that Vietor’s smile when he saw him was for the reasons Lovett dreamed of.

“I was admiring your artistic choice,” Lovett said, gesturing to the painting once they had shook hands. Vietor smiled.

“It’s a Manchurian crane, ” he said. “The Chinese consider them an omen of fidelity and long life. I thought we might dine casually, in the library?”

He gestured to the door, and Lovett followed him through the hallway into a cosy book room, trays set up on the table by the window. The hallway is unfashionably decorated, and at the end of it Lovett can see furniture hidden by dust-cloths.

“Have you been at this house long?” Lovett asked, to make small talk, when they sat down. Vietor made a crooked kind of smile.

“It was my aunt’s. She left it to me when she died a few years ago, but I haven’t had the chance to decorate much yet, as you saw.”

“I don’t know,” he said teasingly. “It’s rather gothic, rooms covered in dust-cloths and mysterious servants. Next you’ll have relatives hidden in the attic. You’d tell me if you had relatives hidden in the attic?”

Vietor laughed, and took the covers off both of their trays, revealing a hearty dinner.

“I assure you I would let you know if I planned to imprison any of my relatives in the attic,” he said seriously. “And my servants are hardly mysterious. I think you’ll find my cook Mrs. Davies makes an excellent roast.”

 Under the table, their knees brushed, and Lovett covered up the start he made by taking up his cutlery.

“I’m sure I can put it to the test,” he said.

The two of them dined companiably for a good quarter of an hour. The roast was as good as promised, as were the trimmings, and it seemed the good conversation of the night previous had not been a singular experience. The talk flowed back and forth, around politics and books, and Vietor’s knowledge of the arts, which had been seriously delayed by the long sea voyage to Canton. Lovett kept himself from intentionally brushing his legs against Vietor’s more than twice. It was all very respectable.

Vietor placed his cutlery neatly next to each other on his plate, and folded his hands shyly in his lap.

“I had wanted to thank you,” he said, in a tone that made Lovett pay attention. “I know we were essentially strangers to one another when you agreed to this...engagement, and that it must be a trial for you, to be publicly known when you could be at liberty.” He paused, and Lovett wished to hell and back that he could reach out and touch him, reassure him that their engagement, false as it was, had not been a trial, but he knew that it would make a liar of him. It _was_ a trial, to be so close to such a good man, to be thanked for a scheme that made him his partner in the most selfish way possible. “But I must thank you, for your part in securing the bill, and the good work that it will do. It….it means a lot to me.”

For a moment, Lovett did not know what to say. He had not thought to be thanked for this.

“Vietor..” he said. Vietor smiled.

“I think, under the circumstances,” he said, blushing. “You can call me Tommy.”

“Tommy,” Lovett said slowly, testing out the sound of it. “I dare say you can call me Jonathan if you like, but my own mother calls me Lovett.”

That wasn’t precisely true, but he had been Lovett at school, and to his friends and lovers for as long as he could remember.

“I think it’s right, that you have a few names.” Tommy said. “It suits your temperament.”

He said that with a light teasing tone, so Lovett loudly inquired what he meant by _that,_ and they did not return to serious topics for the rest of the evening. In the cab journey home, Lovett realised he had never joked with anyone for long or so well. He hoped, even once this was over, Tommy might at least be a friend.

 

***

 

The next week was, at moments, the most torturous week of Lovett’s experience, and, in other moments, the greatest week of his life. He and Tommy quickly developed a routine of riding together in the morning, and taking their breakfast together, before they would part to their own business. They dined twice more at Tommy’s house, each visit revealing more of the slowly changing townhouse. There were only the two servants, a cook and Tommy’s manservant, and a maid that came on odd days, so they had much the run of the place, and Tommy seemed to delight in taking Lovett around the shut up rooms, to listen to him insult the old-fashioned taste in furniture, and the ancient paintings on the walls. Over dinner, they would discuss paint samples and furniture as Tommy redecorated, and later they would take the port to Tommy’s study. There, Tommy would share the wonders he had brought back from Canton. Lovett thought each of them amazing, from the tiny jade beads carved with animals to the books of strange characters that he could not read and Tommy puzzled through extremely slowly.

Lovett had been raised a child of the city, but he felt those evenings the way he thought children must feel in the summers of their youth, when every tree and hollow was an adventure. Those nights, Tommy seemed to come alive with the intelligence Lovett had known lurked under his soft-spoken exterior. He brimmed with new ideas for Britain’s relationship with China, and the Far East, of the potential for trade and understanding with a land on the other side of the world. Lovett had never thought himself uneducated, but he had always focused on issues at home. It had seemed folly to fret over the lives of some strange person many thousands of miles away, when there were people who starved or sickened in England. But in Tommy’s mind, all these things connected, in a web of cause and effect that stretched across the globe. The Foreign Office should put him on the recruiting pamphlets, Lovett thought, one evening, watching Tommy explain the consequences of British trade policy in the West Indies. Surely everyone would want to be (or to have, said a treacherous part of Lovett’s mind) the beautiful creature across from him?

Society whispered a little, and there was gossip about such an irregular engagement, clearly rushed, but they were subjected to it rarely. Emily was a skilled hostess, and no one who was ill-mannered or conservative enough to have a poor opinion appear at her table. Outside of the Favreaus’, neither of them kept the kind of company that was likely to comment on their relationship. It felt - almost peaceful. Like the two of them had found a world apart, a small world attached to greater society that they could withdraw to.

He knew it could not hold, that the sense of peace and togetherness was temporary, but he clung to it nonetheless.

 

***

 

Lovett accompanied Emily and Favreau to the House of Commons on the day of the vote. He saw Tommy among the mass of black-jacketed government men in the opposite gallery, but they could only meet eyes across the chamber. Tommy was at work, among men who needed to respect him, and Lovett didn’t want to impose.

Emily gripped his hand tightly during the vote, her knuckles white, even as she kept her face calm and welcoming. It was another reminder for all that they sometimes treated politics as a game, they did truly care. The things they did mattered.

Favreau cheered when the bill passed, but Emily could only sigh with relief, releasing Lovett’s hand, and opening her fan with a snap to disguise her visible emotion.

“Thank god,” she said quietly, and Lovett patted her hand gently. It was only a moment until she took a steadying breath and stood, to accompany her husband into the foyer as they waited for their carriage to be brought round. Emily and Favreau moved easily through the crowd, smiling and accepting congratulations, Emily placing her hand on the arm of a select few friends and inviting them to dine at Carnegie House in the evening, as a celebration.

Lovett didn’t follow them. He already had an invitation for the dinner, and he was not nearly titled enough to merit an early carriage from the press of the House of Commons. He preferred to wait at the edge of the gallery, rather than brave the press of bodies.

On the other side of the chamber, Tommy stood near the stairs, looking into the middle distance. Lovett didn’t wave, and took the chance to, from a distance for once, admire him. The end of their closeness was near. Lovett could not fault himself, or Tommy. They would separate, and, after an appropriate period of appearing apart for society, they would be friends, of the kind that saw each other at the dinners of friends and spoke only in generalities. Lovett would miss him.

Tommy turned, his eyes searching for someone, and Lovett ducked behind one of the intricate carvings, into the shadows, to avoid being caught staring. Tommy’s face fell when he couldn’t find him, and he stepped into the staircase, out of sight.

 

***

 

Dinner was torturous. Normally, Lovett would have admired Emily’s ability to balance guests interest and politics, and been charmed by his dinner companion, the young Miss Somanader, but he could not ignore Tommy’s presence on his left. Tommy seemed to be constantly touching him, whether it was the brush of their hands as they reached for cutlery, or Tommy’s hand on his shoulder as he interjected into him and Miss Somanader’s conversation, he could not escape it. Eventually, Tommy’s hand came to rest, casually, on Lovett’s leg under the table, and Lovett watched him eat one-handed with a slight air of desperation. Tommy could not know what he was doing to Lovett, or the hysterical internal war inside Lovett’s mind that his touch elicited. Occasionally, Emily would glare at him until he remembered to be a semi-functional conversational partner, but he knew he was being held together by desperation and adrenalin, and made a poor dinner guest.

Eventually, finally, the dinner ended, and Lovett was the first to suggest they rejoin the ladies, after he had barely touched his lips to the port. Tommy had looked happy, standing too close to Lovett for propriety, but now he face fell and drew away from him. Lovett could not understand it. Surely now they would be free of one another. Tommy would be free to be the eligible gentleman he should have been from the start, free to find a beautiful golden-haired woman and produce golden-haired children by the dozen, who would populate the many insufferable gentry of England, becoming pastors and MPs and lawyers. Lovett could go back to his poetry and his fellow inverts and his political causes. Emily would find some project that she needed him for, and he would not be unfulfilled, but he knew his life would be less for having come so close to something - to a man who laughed at his jokes and loved nothing more than conversation on intricate, complicated politics. He had held that tightly to him, but now it rushed through his fingers.

In the parlor with the ladies, Lovett sat with Emily, insulated from the other gentleman by a bulwark of women and their huge dresses. Tommy stood at the fireplace, with Favreau, clearly not listening to conversation so that he could watch Lovett with a strange hungry look on his face. Lovett’s skin prickled with it, the many days of frustrated desire and attraction and _wanting._

“Don’t you agree, Lovett?” Emily asked, and Lovett tore his gaze away from Tommy to rejoin the conversation he had been neglecting. He had not heard a single word of it.

“I beg your pardon?” he said. Emily’s mouth tightened, the frown of a woman who had to always appear to be pleasant and good company.

“Miss Koch was just saying that she is of the opinion that there is a great deal more work to be done on improving the behaviour of British citizens abroad,” Emily said, nodding to Miss Koch, who sat across from Emily. Lovett had not even realised she had dined with them, his attention had been so scattered. “She believes that the momentum of the recent bill will be a great boon to our efforts there,” Emily finished. Lovett nodded.

“Miss Koch has a fine political mind,” Lovett said, meeting her gaze. Miss Koch smiled, and then demurely used her fan to hide it, as she tucked her hand around the arm of the man sitting next to her. He was dressed soberly and looked vaguely familiar, but nothing that stood out in Lovett’s mind.

“Andrew certainly thinks so,” she said fondly, and the gentleman blushed and ducked his head shyly, before raising Miss Koch’s hand to his lips. “Mr. Lovett, might I introduce a dear friend of my family, Mr. Andrew McCade MP.”

“A pleasure,” Lovett said, with a nod, feeling like he was acting automatically, like a cart set on rails. He should tell Tommy that Miss Koch was acting like a woman on the verge of an engagement proposal. Tommy would have to find a different beautiful woman to woo. He felt a strange, confused protectiveness. He had wanted to keep Tommy from others, just to himself, but he also hated the idea that someone else could not want him. The air felt rather short in the room. “Apologies ladies, sir, excuse me,” he said, already standing up and striding to the door, unable to bear the presence of others any more. He heard Emily make a polite excuse behind him, but he wasn’t listening, focused only on finding his way down the hall into Favreau’s library. He burst in, giving himself a few moments of peace before he heard the soft whispering sound of Emily’s dress moving, and she followed him into the library. He leaned on the desk, keeping his back to her.

“Lovett, what is wrong?” she asked, laying a gentle hand on his arm. She was wearing white lawn gloves, and her touch was light. He wanted to shrug her off, to make a joke, but it would have been cruel, and uncalled for. He shrugged, and turned, trying to square his shoulders.

“I'm happy for you, Emily,” he said. “I truly am. The bill… you and Favreau have done good work.”

“What is it then,” she said, withdrawing her hand and crossing her arms. It made her look younger than usual, frustrated by not being able to help a friend. “Have you fallen out with Tommy? You don’t usually act like this when you quarrel with friends.”

Lovett’s heart clenched at the reminder that friendship was all that was promised between him and Tommy.

“I’ve been such a fool,” he said, meeting Emily’s curious gaze. She tipped her head.

“My lord has said that you and Tommy have dined together all this week. I had worried you would not get on, but it seems you have found a good friend.” she said, and Lovett shook his head, knowing he looked stricken.

“If friendship was all I wanted,” he said, not knowing where his thoughts led that sentence to end, and Emily’s eyebrows shot up in understanding.

“Oh, Jonathan,” she said suddenly, in a tone of such understanding pity that Lovett wanted to cringe. She reached out to him and they embraced, Emily holding him tightly.

“I’m such a fool,” Lovett repeated into her shoulder, and Emily gripped him tightly before they separated. She kept her hands on his shoulders.

“Don’t say that,” she said, opening her mouth to say more, when the door to the library clicked open. Both of them turned to look, and Favreau stepped through the door, leaving it ajar behind him.

“My dear, the guests are asking after you,” he said, not in the least perturbed by finding his wife in the arms of another man. Lovett had not been observant in many years, but the back of his mind, the part not occupied with his emotional crisis, tossed out a quick thankful prayer for whatever fate had brought Favreau, casually kind, into him and Emily’s lives. She took her hands off Lovett’s shoulder, and brushed the front of her dress.

“The guests can wait Jon,” she said, a bit shortly.

“Lovett, is everything okay?” asked a familiar voice from the other side of the door, as it was pushed open and Tommy stepped in. Lovett restrained the desire to throw his hands in the air and make an undignified strangled noise. Great, now his two best friends and the object of his affections could be privy to his emotional crisis. This was exactly what he needed.

“I am fine.” he said firmly, trying not to sound hysterical. Emily raised an eyebrow at him, but he was unconcerned. It stood to reason that the person who knew him best would be the one to notice that he was dissembling, but he could probably convince Favreau and Tommy. “I was merely thinking about the appropriate time to do something sufficiently artistic and dishonourable that you may be justified in breaking off our ‘engagement’.”

A strange emotion passed across Tommy’s face that Lovett didn’t recognise. He crossed the library, sitting in the armchair, blushing strongly. It did not appear to be in embarrassment or shyness, the circumstances that Lovett had seen him blush in before. Lovett felt prickly and annoyed, knowing that all three of them were looking at him.

“You don’t need to do anything,” Tommy said in a small voice. “It would be cruel to...use you like that. I will announce that I cannot commit to an engagement at this time, discreetly. Society will think me flighty, but you will not be implicated.”

Damn Tommy and damn noble English honour. Lovett had never seen a use for it, when all it seemed to do was make perfectly sensible men do ridiculous things and not listen to his very clear instructions. Damn propriety, and damn never speaking one's mind.

Favreau grimaced, and went to close the library door.

“Perhaps this is a subject best left to a another time. And a more private location,” he said, with the face of an Englishman being subjected to a conversation that featured emotions. Something vicious twisted in Lovett’s gut.

“Oh, of course, my lord,” he said sarcastically, “you wouldn’t want a conversation between a known sodomite and his rumoured lover to disgrace your lordly home. It might suggest you tolerate homosexuals.” He over-pronounced the last word, in the tone of a matron discussing a piece of dust that had vexed her.

Favreau rolled his eyes aggressively, a profoundly ungentlemanly gesture on a very gentlemanly person.

“Lovett, will you stop being ridiculous for a moment in your life. Of course I don’t care you’re a homosexual, Tommy is my best friend!”

It took a horrible few seconds for that to make sense, and then Lovett froze. It was one of those moments when an assumption you had founded all your behaviour on had shattered and you had no idea how to proceed. It was not a particularly pleasant feeling. He had been playing the fool for all this time.

“You cannot be serious,” he said, turning to look at Tommy who had turned bright red all over and had his face in his hand. He had the temerity to look handsome even when Lovett was angry at him.

“My dear, I think it would be better if we withdraw,” Emily said quietly, tugging at Favreau’s arm. Lovett barely heard. “This seems like something Tommy and Lovett should discuss privately.”

“But-” Favreau said, and then stopped when Emily gave him a particularly hard yank and didn’t argue anymore. At least the man had the good sense to listen to his wife. The library door closed softly behind them.

Tommy looked up from his hands, and met Lovett’s gaze despite his blush.

“If you’re going to berate me for not telling you earlier, you can sod off. I went to China to get away from people telling me I had to do things a certain way, so I’m not putting it up with it now that I’m back.” he said. He sounded angry.

Lovett put out his hands.

“I thought you had an arrangement with Miss Koch,” he said, as if that explained anything. Tommy snorted.

“Hanna and I learned Chinese together. Her father sells half the Chinese tea in London. She’s going to marry an MP and become a Lady, not be stuck with some man from the Foreign Office who’s away as often as he’s home,” he said.

“I thought you preferred _women_ ,” Lovett said, in an extremely strangled tone of voice. Tommy nearly choked in surprise.

“I’m the disgraced invert son,” Tommy said, clearly too surprised to be embarrassed. “I went all the way to _China_ to get away from it.”

“Well,” Lovett said, not sure what to do with his hands. Suddenly everything he had been thinking for a week and more was permissible. He was surprised he wasn’t steaming from the ears. Tommy smiled, in a tense, nervous way.

“If we’re sharing the impressions we had, I thought you didn’t like me,” he said. Lovett considered shaking him where he sat.  

“Didn’t like you!” he said, feeling nearly hysterical. “Tommy, I-”

He didn’t know how to continue. He didn’t even know if he could move, or act, or say. He was never speechless. Tommy had stolen all the words.

In front of him, Tommy’s hands formed into fists on his thighs, and he nodded, as if making up his mind, and then stood. Two quick steps took him within breathing distance of Lovett, and then they were kissing.

Tommy’s hand came to hold Lovett’s face, painfully gentle as his fingertips curled around to touch the back of his neck. The kiss was soft, gentle, and their lips moved against each other for a half-second before Lovett felt the wave of pent-up desire hit him like a brick to the head. His hands came up to grip Tommy’s lapels, pulling him so that their bodies were flush against each other, their hips bumping.

When they broke apart to catch their breath, Tommy was flushed all over, his lips full and red from kissing, and he was the most beautiful thing Lovett had ever seen.

“God, you-” was all he managed to say, before he pushed Tommy backwards into the chair and climbed on top of him, his knees fitting on either side of Tommy’s hips. They kissed like that, their hands exploring each other, Tommy pushing Lovett’s coat off to fall onto the floor.

“We’re such fools,” Lovett said, when he sat back to use both his hands to untie Tommy’s cravat.

“Why?” Tommy asked, with a crooked smile. Lovett glared at him, but he knew it was too fond to mean anything.

“We could have been doing this all this time,” he said, and Tommy’s smile turned into a grin.

“Do you want to do this all the time?” he asked, willfully misunderstanding, his hair all standing on end from when Lovett had unconsciously put his hands in it. They were utterly disreputable looking, and not fit for polite company, and Lovett was the happiest he had been in months. He lifted Tommy’s cravat away, leaving it to hang over one of the arms. Tommy licked his lips, and then reached up to touch Lovett’s chest, his hands slowly tracing downwards, to Lovett’s waistband.

Lovett caught his wrist.

“If I ravish you in Favreau’s library, Emily will make fun of us for the rest of our days.” he said.

Tommy was already too flushed to show a blush, and he looked too happy to blush in the first place.

“I’ve been thinking about this all week,” he said, freeing his hand from Lovett’s grip. That, more than anything, took Lovett completely by surprise, the idea that Tommy had been thinking about _him_ for a week, that they had been thinking about _each other_. Tommy’s other hand reached out to grab the back of Lovett’s neck and pulled him into an almost painfully sweet kiss, their noses bumping, both of them smiling into it. Tommy caught Lovett’s bottom lip between his teeth and bit down lightly, and Lovett surprised himself when he moaned loudly into the kiss. Tommy grinned, clearly having won that disagreement, and Lovett didn’t try to stop him when he untucked Lovett’s shirt, sliding a hand along his bare skin under it.

“I suppose Emily will make allowance for exceptional circumstances,” Lovett said absently, and Tommy laughed.

“God, you just-” Tommy said, kissing Lovett’s throat, the space available to him along the line of his shirt. “You just - never stop.”

“Well, I don’t want you to stop _that_ ,” Lovett said, his voice cracking on the final word. Tommy was unfairly good at that. Tommy hummed happily, his hands busy opening Lovett’s trousers and working them down his hips.

Lovett gasped when Tommy licked his hand and finally wrapped it firmly around his prick, stroking him to full hardness in seconds. It was hardly his greatest performance, but he worked his hips, fucking the circle of Tommy's fingers with a maddening slowness. The breath came short in his lungs and he felt warm all over, but especially where Tommy was touching him, his prick, his fingers tight on Lovett’s hip.

“Oh sweet jesus,” he said, when Tommy used his other hand to scratch lightly at the inside of his thighs, the sensation lighting up his skin. “Tommy, I'll-”

He didn't get a chance to finish his sentence, as Tommy surged up from the chair to kiss him, Lovett clinging to the back of the armchair with white-knuckled fingers. He spent like that, all over Tommy’s hand, their mouths pressed together in a gasping kiss.

For a moment, all he could do was try and catch his breath. He kissed the side of Tommy’s face, and chuckled when he saw Tommy’s grimace at his dirty hand from up close. Tommy wiped it on Lovett's already unsavable shirt, and started to work his own trousers open.

“Oh no,” Lovett said, slithering to his knees in front of the chair with as much grace as one could manage in such a state of _deshabille_. “No lover of mine brings himself off with just his hand.”

Tommy looked slightly poleaxed, his eyes widening with surprise as Lovett pulled at his hips until he came forward in the seat. He used both hands to push his trousers out of the way, letting Tommy’s red prick spring free. He talked a big talk about being a shameless invert, but Tommy’s dick was glorious, soft and hard in his hand, and already leaking at the tip, easing the friction as Lovett ran his hand from root to tip.

He glanced upwards, fluttering his eyelashes in a way he knew was alluring, smiling smugly when he felt Tommy’s prick jerk.

“You don’t have to-” Tommy began. Lovett stopped him by stroking his cock, loving it when he made a choked sound.

“I want to,” Lovett said, resisting the urge to wink, and leaned forward, taking Tommy’s cock into his mouth. The astringent taste was familiar, the feeling of stretch in his mouth heady and intoxicating. He could hear Tommy reacting above him, and then he moaned himself when he felt Tommy’s hand tangle in his hair, pulling only lightly but still a present, controlling sensation. He hollowed out his cheeks to suck, hard, digging his fingertips into Tommy’s thighs, bobbing his head until the two of them together found a rhythm, both of them groaning at the sensations, not caring about being quiet.

Lovett felt Tommy tug on his hair and make a sudden choked off noise, but he ignored it, and swallowed convulsively. He wanted to show off. Tommy’s hand came to hold Lovett’s cheek, his fingers brushing where his lips were stretched around his prick. He rather thought showing off had worked.  

Tommy pulled Lovett gently up by his chin, into a kiss that carried both of them away. When they surfaced, Lovett had crawled back into Tommy’s lap, both of them in soiled shirts, their trousers open. They were both thoroughly debauched.

“Jesus Mary and Joseph,” Tommy whispered gently, his forehead pressed against Lovett’s. He snorted.

“I’m Jewish,” he whispered back, which made Tommy laugh suddenly, his shoulders shaking. Eventually, They both stood and slowly tried to put themselves to right, tucking their shirts back into their trousers, Lovett unsuccessfully trying to disguise the stains. They both were slowed by their constant breaks to kiss, laughing and smiling into each kiss.

When they finally were re-dressed, and had helped each other back into their coats, they looked exactly as if they had debauched one another in a friend’s private library, without even pausing to lock the door. Emily would have covered for them to the assembled guests, but Lovett had no clue how they were to get away with this with any honour intact.

Tommy reached out to adjust Lovett’s curls, combing them off the front of his forehead.

“I don’t mean to be too forward,” he said, and Lovett snorted loudly, which made Tommy blush beautifully. Lovett realised that he could finally satisfy his curiosity in the same second he stepped forward to press the back of his fingers to Tommy’s cheek, feeling the heat of the blush. It was warm. Tommy took his hand. “I don’t mean to be forward,” he repeated, “and I hope you will say if it’s not agreeable to you, but I hope….I would like it a great deal if our engagement were to continue.”

For that, Lovett had to kiss him, and they were distracted for a moment by that. When they pulled apart, Lovett shook his head fondly.

“You may take that as permission to be forward from now on,” he said.

 

***

**Epilogue**

 

Emily had truly outdone herself preparing the ball. Workmen and staff had taken over the Favreau’s personal ballroom for a week in advance of the festivities, hammering and sanding and cleaning until the entire room gleamed, as if it had been completely rebuilt only the day before. She also sheltered Tommy and Lovett from all the work with the fierceness of a lioness defending her cubs.

“You are _engaged,_ ” she said, redirecting Lovett from his attempt to assist her with the ordering of refreshments. “Go and entertain your fiance.”

Finally, the day of the ball arrived. Emily had been free with the invitations, and it was a strangely mixed crowd. As far as Lovett could tell, every same-sex couple in society had received an invitation, including a number outside of either of their social circle. He had not expected so many of them to accept, but it was still rare for same-sex couples to have public engagements. How much of it was support in the spirit of solidarity, and how much of it was prurient curiosity he could not say. A number of Tommy’s social circles, mostly fellow working men of the Home and Foreign Officers, were in attendance with their wives, or sisters, and Lovett’s circle of artistic and political writers had also all turned out for the occasion. It produced a strange mix in places, but everyone seemed to be at least making an effort to co-exist, for all their sakes.

Tommy was still a government man at heart, so his coat was a somber black, and his waistcoat matched. It brought out the tanned tone of his skin, and made his eyes seem even bluer, so Lovett could not find it in him to complain about the lack of colour in his clothing. He more than made up for it, for he had used Emily’s insistence on his leisure as an excuse to purchase a new bottle-green coat. He had a off-black waistcoat that went with it very well, and he knew he turned out quite well for a man with no valet.

Outside the door to the ballroom, Tommy stopped him with a soft hand at his shoulder, and wordlessly adjusted his cravat, redoing the knot until it laid tightly against his collar, and then tucked into his shirt. Lovett let him, knowing it calmed his nerves. He had the faint pinkness on the sharp points of his cheeks that Lovett now knew meant he was nervous. He had many days to catalogue and define each of Tommy's blushes now, and he felt he could read them as one read an alphabet, or Tommy read the Chinese pictographs in his books.

“Are you sure?” Tommy asked, his fingers smoothing the material of Lovett’s neckcloth. He supposed it would be easier to pretend that Tommy meant the ball, was he sure about a night spent making conversation and dancing, or was he sure about the colour of his coat and waistcoat, was he sure about Emily's decorations, or choice of refreshments.

Lovett caught Tommy's hand in his and turned it over to kiss the palm before releasing it.

“I'm sure Tommy.” he said, and knew that Tommy heard the answer to his unspoken question. This ball would be a confirmation of their engagement. After this, there would be no breaking it off, not without a society scandal that would damage them both and hurt their friends. Soon, both of them would be introducing the other to their family, and they had plans for Lovett to reduce expenses by moving into Tommy's townhouse.

They had agreed mutually that theirs would be a long engagement. They had a lot to learn about each other, and they had begun the long process of re-orienting their lives around each other, of slowly learning one another’s hopes and desires.

Lovett smirked to think about how Tommy had applied his considerable intellect and methodical tendencies to learning Lovett’s desires the night previous. Tommy blushed, as he caught the expression’s meaning, and tucked Lovett’s arm around his. They entered the ballroom arm-in-arm.

The ball itself was already a whirl of brightly coloured silks and soberly dressed gentlemen, as a longways dance proceeded at pace, Emily and Favreau the sparkling centre of it. Lovett and Tommy parted for a moment then, Tommy to make an appearance among his government contacts and Lovett to reassure his artistic friends that he had not been entirely stolen away by society friends. He had agreed to jointly publish a few verses with the Honourable Miss Cox, and they discussed a few of the particulars over champagne while the dance continued. It was in some of its last steps when Miss Cox gestured with her glass.

“I see your fiance has finally encountered Miss Zhao,” she said. Lovett followed her gesture with his eyes. Tommy was speaking with a diminutive woman in a spangled blue dress. Her glossy black hair had been done in a complex curling style, topped with a white lace cap. So, this was the Miss Zhao that had so terrified Tommy, and kicked off the whole enterprise. Lovett didn't know whether to lecture or thank her.

He supposed some sort of recognition was in order, and he handed his glass of champagne to a passing member of staff.

“If you'll excuse me Miss Cox,” he said, with a shallow bow. They were friends, so he only waited to see her smile before he turned to cross the ballroom, skirting the edge around the dance. He must have been in the corner of Tommy’s eye, for Tommy reached out to him as he approached, and tucked Lovett’s arm under his propitiously.

“Nian,” he said, cutting off what he had been saying. “May I present my fiance, Mr. Lovett?”

Up close, Lovett could see that Miss Zhao was sure to be counted among the next season's beauties. Her skin was the rich, even colour of fine milk, and her expressive eyes were set above high, fine cheekbones. She regally extended her hand for Lovett, as if she were Princess Caroline herself. Lovett smirked. He could see how this tiny woman could intimidate those twice her size, and bent over her hand to kiss it.

“My pleasure Miss Zhao. Tales of your beauty have preceded your arrival on our fair isle. We are lucky to have you among us,” he said. She smiled tightly, with a wary edge to her gaze.

“It is an honour to be known in such kind terms by the fiance of a friend,” she said, glancing between Tommy and Lovett. Tommy smiled back at her.

“It is a shame you arrived so late in the season,” he said. “This is sure to be one of the last balls before most depart for the country.”

“I have been speaking with Miss Koch,” she said, nodding in Hanna’s direction. She was dancing, although she seemed to have left her MP at home and had taken her brother as a dance partner. “Her brother has taken a rent on an estate in Cambridgeshire, and she was kind enough to extend an invitation that I may join her.”

“I dare say you will see us there at some point,” Lovett said airily. “We shall be friends all together in that most English of torture instruments, the countryside.”

Miss Zhao laughed lightly at that, and Lovett saw the wariness in her gaze dissipate. She had understood his meaning that he did not intend to hold a grudge for any past she may have been implicated in, and if Miss Koch had intervened to welcome Miss Zhao to their social circle, Lovett was happy to get to know the woman. If Emily and Favreau had more political plans, he would hardly sniff at an ally who was the two things that most successfully turned the head of England's powerful: pretty and rich.

“I'm sure we shall all find a way to do quite well out of it all,” Miss Zhao said with a smile. Lovett nodded in return and raised his glass in a fake toast. His free hand was in Tommy's, and he was secure in the knowledge that they would go home together, go to bed together, pass the following morning together.

“I believe I have already done extremely well,” he said, and squeezed Tommy's hand.

 

**The End**

 


End file.
